Bobby was the loneliest man on planet earth. By design. He relished the pain.
God knows he tried to make connections with other people, but let's face it - people are boring and people are selfish. Co-workers, women, bars, sports - he made the effort and was disappointed every single time. People are stupid, people are petty. Few are worthy of life.
Bobby retreated. To his apartment, and into his mind. He knew that he was the only one worthy of his company. So he worked from home (and did quite well for himself), had his groceries delivered, and never left the apartment unless he had to pick up his special treat.
Human skin, cooked until crispy, was absolutely sublime. Why wouldn't it be? You always go for the crispiest piece of chicken skin, right? It is a short trip from chicken to human. And human flesh has an endless variety of flavors. The things people eat, do they drink or not, do they smoke or not, do they exercise, are they fat, are they skinny, how do they take care of their skin, do they keep it moist or let it go dry - all of these factors contribute to flavor variations.
Bobby's closest friend Ed was a mortician, and Ed kept him supplied with fresh skin. He'd peel a flap or two off each corpse and freeze them for subsequent delivery. People trust morticians in their moment of vulnerability, but morticians are the ghouls you think they are. It's just more comfortable to pretend they are virtuous. If you knew what the mortician did to your mother's corpse you'd kill him with your bare hands.
Bobby paid a premium for this service, more so on the nights when he just had to have fresh flesh, but it was worth it. Human flesh cooked up on his electric indoor grill, and basted with his homemade marinade, was exquisite. Sometimes he even ate it with his fingers while watching TV, which felt particularly decadent to him.
Pamela had taken an annoying interest in Bobby because she knew there was something odd about him. She was attracted to odd. She lived in the apartment next door and took notice of the deliveries to the apartment, and the frenzied comings and goings on odd nights. He was rude to her, ignored her, insulted her, but to no avail. Pamela was relentless.
Bobby was watching a documentary one night when there was a knock on the door. The movie was titled The Loneliest Whale, and he found it amusing. It was about the 52-hertz whale, which has spent its entire life in solitude, calling out at a frequency different than any other whale. Why does he call out? He would only be bitterly disappointed by companionship. Bobby thought the whale was pathetic. Bobby made his own entertainment, and he found his life to be quite fulfilling.
Working on his fourth whiskey, his radar compromised, Bobby answered the door. It was Pamela. She said "I intercepted tonight's delivery. I know it's from Ed the mortician because I have been spying on you. I want you to show me what it is."
Bobby disguised his rage and invited Pamela into the apartment. As she brushed past him, he closed and locked the door, grabbed the baseball bat he kept close at hand, and smashed her in the back of the head.
She stumbled to the floor, and in an uncontrollable rage Bobby was upon her, bashing her skull over and over and over until it was pulp. He stood over her wheezing from exertion, and wondered what the hell he was going to do with her body.
Then inspiration struck.
He walked into the kitchen and slid one of his high-end carving knives out of the hardwood knife block. Walked back to Pamela's body, cut a hole in her jeans and sliced a flap of skin off her thigh.
Looking demonic with a sinister smile on his lips and blood dripping off his chin, he thought:
"Human flesh tartare. A fucking delicacy."
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